Mortality
by Luciferine
Summary: Seventh installment of the 'Straight on 'Til Morning' Series. Five times Joel cheated death and one time he admitted he couldn't do it forever. Cross-posted from Tumblr.


**AN: As always, set in SOTM 'verse using SOTM headcanons etc etc. One of those '5 times x happened and one time it didn't' things. Dedicated to my fans for the long, arduous wait on the next installment. Hopefully this will tide you over. Prompts are welcome. **

i.

He's sixteen. He wakes up in a hospital bed, nearly hacking out a lung. He's got the biggest fucking headache and his stomach is churning.

"You took one hell of a hit, son," the doctor tells him, flipping through his charts. Joel's confused, but then it comes back. First game of the season, less than a minute left on the clock, and he'd been about to score a touchdown when some bastard had tackled him and- nothing. Black. He can't remember anything after that, and it unsettles him. "You're lucky to still be with us. Someone up there must like you."

He sure as hell doesn't feel lucky, because the next second he's emptying his stomach into a nearby basin. The doctor pats him on the back, tells him it's normal for concussions, and wanders off to talk to his parents. He's vaguely aware of his father saying something like, "He'll be fine for the next game, right?" Tommy's sitting beside his bed, flipping through a comic book.

"Gross," he mutters, wrinkling his nose at his older brother's distress. Joel flips him off right before his stomach heaves again.

[[MORE]]

ii.

He's twenty-seven. He wakes up feeling like he's been hit by a fucking truck and he can't breathe right. He vaguely recollects the feeling of hitting something hard.

"You fell off a roof," Tommy supplies helpfully, wandering over with a coffee in hand. "Broke a coupla ribs. And your leg. Docs couldn't believe you hadn't clocked out by the time you got here." Joel tries to sit up and the pain leaves him breathless. "Serves you right for going to work on less than five hours of sleep. Fuckin' lucky you didn't break your fool neck."

He wants to say that it's not his fault. Sarah's game ran late and the house was a complete mess and almost all of the bills were overdue. It's not like he'd been fucking around all night-like he's sure his little brother was. By the time he'd finished everything it was a little late, yeah. But he'd thought he could make it. He doesn't say anything, though, partly because he's not sure he _can_ and partly because he knows Tommy's right.

Instead, he croaks out a request to see his daughter.

iii.

He's not sure how long it's been. A couple of weeks, maybe a month since the world went to hell. Tommy's sleeping; it's Joel's turn on watch.

He hears gunshots outside, yelling. People dying left and right. Not that long ago, he would have cared. Maybe even tried to help. Now, he checks that his revolver is loaded and points it at the door.

How they've managed to survive this long, he has no idea. Everything's gone fucking insane. He's convinced it's just good luck and good timing that's brought them this far. They probably don't have much time left. It probably says something about how far gone he is, that he couldn't give less of a fuck.

He weighs the revolver in his hand, thinking. He could end it. Right here, right now. It's not like he has much of a future ahead of him. If he doesn't, when he inevitably does kick the bucket, it'll probably be a hell of a lot more painful than a bullet to the brain. He wouldn't be the first, either. In the very beginning, when the news stations were still working, they'd reported mass suicides; peoples shooting themselves and each other and jumping off buildings. He's beginning to think they were the smart ones.

He could do it. And maybe... maybe, if God is real and half as forgiving as the churches used to preach, he might see Sarah again.

He stares at the gun for a long time. He's startled out of his thoughts by someone screaming about Infected. He curses and kicks his brother awake.

He might die tonight. It's a comforting thought.

iv.

It's been a few years. More than he can really count. He's drifting in and out of consciousness. There's blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Something's definitely bleeding inside of him.

"Fucking _idiot_," Tess growls at him, pouring what feels like half a bottle of alcohol onto his chest. He doesn't have the energy to do much more than grit his teeth at the pain. "Who gets fucking shot on a fucking routine supply run? Only you, Joel. I swear to fucking God." Anyone else would probably think she's pissed off at him for fucking up the run. Joel's been working with Tess long enough to recognize the times when she's genuinely worried. This is one of those times.

He blacks out for a few moments. A sudden, stinging pain brings him back. He has about a second to wonder what it was before Tess backhands him again.

"You are _not_ dying on me, you fucker," she tells him. "Do you here me? Not today."

No, he agrees a long time later, once the bleeding has stopped and Tess has managed to patch him up decently. Not today.

There's an ache in his chest that feels oddly like disappointment.

v.

He wakes up. That in itself comes as a shock. He's alive. He's nearly choking on the freezing air around him, but at least he's breathing. His chest burns with an emotion he's not used to feeling in these situations; relief. He's not dead, and he's glad for it. Why?

Everything comes back at once, making his head throb with pain. The university. The fall. _Ellie_. He forces himself to stand. He's shaky on his feet, his legs aching from lack of use, but he manages to keep upright.

"Ellie?" he calls. She must be close by. He sure as hell didn't get indoors by himself. The silence that follows chills him more than the temperature ever could. He tries again. "Ellie?" Still no answer.

The fear that grips him is like a living thing. Something's gone very, very wrong. He has to find her. He doesn't even let himself think about the fact that he might be too late, that she might be... No.

He stumbles outside, winter air biting at him, and prays to whoever's listening that his body doesn't give out before he finds her.

_Just let me make it long enough to know she's alright. Please._

+1

It's summer. He's propped up on a cot in the town clinic, trying not to show any outward signs of pain.

"I'm fine," he promises Ellie for what feels like the hundreth time. "Just took a bit of a fall." Really, it wasn't even his fault. Something spooked his horse while he was out riding and the dumb animal threw him. He might have done something to his back, but it's hardly the worst he's ever had. He tells her as much, but it only seems to make things worse.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about!" she fumes. "You have to be more careful, Joel. This time you were lucky, Tommy was with you. But what if next time..." she trails off, eyes darting away from his. She swallows visibly, and he wonders with no small amount of concern if she's going to cry. He's honestly confused. She's seen him far more hurt than this.

"Ellie, it's not a big deal-"

"Yes it is!" She interrupts him angrily, clenching her fists. "You're always telling me to be careful, but when it comes to your own safety you don't... you never..." Her voice begins to tremble and she stops. He can see her shaking.

"C'mere," he sighs. She sits down on the edge of the cot, head down. "I'm okay," he tells her gently. He grabs her hand, offering her a small smile when she looks up. Her eyes are too bright with unshed tears.

She wipes her free hand across her face quickly. "Today you were," she agrees. "But what about next time? Or the time after that?" He doesn't know how to respond to that. He accepted a long time ago that death would come sooner rather than later, but now... he wishes it didn't have to. For her sake.

He's silent for a long time, letting her squeeze his hand while they sit in silence. "I'll stick around for as long as I can." He can't promise her any more than that. "I'm not exactly easy to kill, you know," he says teasingly. The look on her face makes him instantly regret his words. "I'll be more careful," he tells her. "I will. But Ellie..."

"No," she whispers. "Don't."

He winches at the obvious pain in her voice. "I know it's hard, but we need to talk-"

"You have no idea," she hisses, jumping to her feet and tearing her hand away from his. "You've been ready to die for years. Do you even care that I'll be... that I won't..." She's shaking again, and he wishes he knew how to make this right.

"'Course I care," he tells her softly. "'Course I do. I'm sorry," he tells her, not sure if he's apologizing for hurting her or for the inevitable or both. "I'm sorry, Ellie. Come back." She does, wrapping her arms around his neck -gently, he notes with grim amusement, trying not to hurt him- and the shaking stops. If his shirt feels a little wet, well. He's not gonna mention it. "I'll stay," he promises. "I'm sorry. I'll stay."

He wishes it were true.


End file.
